


Dominion

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Alcohol, Established Relationship, Flirting, Jealousy, M/M, Making Out, No Plot/Plotless, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-31 00:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17838911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Finally even the constant weight of concern for his king’s safety is insufficient to keep Ja’far still while his heart is cut out from him and left to bleed as red as the wine in Sinbad’s ever-full cup." Ja'far finds kingly pursuits not much to his liking, and Sinbad has a more successful chase when looking for what he really wants.





	Dominion

Ja’far hates banquets.

It’s not the crowds, although he would prefer a smaller gathering of only five or six people to the expansive, expensive parties that Sinbad has a demonstrated interest in throwing. It’s not the noise, either, although as the night wears on the volume of conversation rises in time with intoxication, until it’s almost impossible to hear anything at all over bursts of laughter and cheers from one gathering or another. It’s not the food, either; that at least is something Ja’far can actively appreciate, even if his tastes for alcohol run towards a single cup or two rather than the pitchers that flow as freely as everything else at the king’s behest. But all that would be tolerable, would be enjoyable, even, were it not for Sinbad’s determination to uphold the less upstanding portions of the reputation that is matched only by the presence of the man around whom it is built.

Ja’far knows he ought not to protest. Sinbad’s refusal to take a wife was no more than a charming quirk at the beginning of his reign, but as the years pass the need for an heir looms ever larger, even for a ruler as unwilling to allow himself to be touched by illness or injury as he is by any kind of defeat. Sinbad seems to lead a charmed life, with the hand of fate itself sometimes appearing to smooth his way; it is hardly a surprise that that same appeal should extend to the dozens of young women all hoping for a chance to become the queen of Sindria, or at least for an opportunity to bear the children that may hold a claim to the throne in the years yet to come. But logic carries Ja’far nowhere when it comes to this, and extra cups of wine more than he ought to have do nothing but make the heat of Sinbad’s laugh frost farther into the inside of his chest, until finally even the constant weight of concern for his king’s safety is insufficient to keep Ja’far still while his heart is cut out from him and left to bleed as red as the wine in Sinbad’s ever-full cup.

It’s quieter in the halls of the palace. The occupants are without, spread across the courtyard or sequestered in alcoves of privacy where the lulling effect of alcohol has drawn them; even the servants are freed for the night, set to single shifts of waiting upon the guests before they are allowed to drop their own responsibilities and join the celebration themselves. It is only Ja’far who turns his back on the celebration, and the amusement to be had in the king’s increasingly enthusiastic flirtations, and takes himself to pace through the darkened hallways so empty that even the soft sound of his footsteps echoes back to fill the night with the illusion of company he neither has nor wants.

He doesn’t know how long he walks. The night is long, stretching endless with the effect of those last cups of wine he swallowed, and even the familiar halls of the palace have become a labyrinth in which to lose himself as thoroughly as he means to stray from the bitter taste of his thoughts. Ja’far walks, and walks, and walks, moving forward and never gaining any ground at all; until finally he steps to an arching doorway, and finds himself at the edge of a balcony overlooking one of the lush gardens below.

He doesn’t draw forward to gaze down at the moonlit flowers and night-shadowed trees. The gardens are the first place to which the steps of hopeful lovers draw themselves, and Ja’far is in no mood to glimpse anyone in another’s embrace, even if they are no more than strangers instead of that king to whom he long since gave his heart as well as his loyalty. He turns himself sideways instead, tipping to brace his shoulders against the support of the archway casting a long diagonal of moonlight to stripe across his body, and he shuts his eyes and lets the lingering heat of the wine in him lull him into the illusion of warmth enough to chase aside the bitter chill of jealousy.

It’s the sound of the tree he hears first. The leaves rustle against each other, limbs creaking as if in the gusting force of a high wind; Ja’far wonders if there’s not a storm, or a sweep of air caught into an eddy in this particular garden. But it’s only the one tree he can hear, not the garden-wide crackle and hiss that would come with a wandering gust; and then there’s the _thud_ of feet landing at the balcony, and Ja’far jerks upright, reaching for the loops of cord at his side as quickly as he opens his eyes. Intoxication is forgotten, swept aside in the first icy rush of adrenaline that comes with the anticipation of an attack; and then Ja’far’s gaze finds the spill of long hair over the intruder’s shoulder, and the sweep of clothing dyed to such a vivid purple that even the pale moonlight can’t help but give it color, and his breath catches with adrenaline of a completely different variety as Sinbad tips his head to smile at him.

“Sin,” Ja’far blurts. “What are you doing here?”

Sinbad turns his head to look around the curve of the balcony. “I thought I’d find you here,” he says, without any indication of so much as acknowledging Ja’far’s question. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug; a lock of his hair slips forward to fall across his chest. “Or somewhere like here, anyway.”

“How did you get up here?” Ja’far asks, still trapped by his own surprise into questions that he can answer for a moment of attention to that rustle of sound he heard, to the swaying of the tree still showing the effect of Sinbad’s weight on its branches. “Why...what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be down at the banquet.”

“So are you,” Sinbad says. He lifts his head to look out at the garden and hums a sound of appreciation in the back of his throat. “It’s pretty here, when you have it to yourself. I should come here more often.”

“ _Sin_ ,” Ja’far says, sharply enough to drag Sinbad’s attention back around to him. His throat is tighter than he wishes it was; he has to swallow hard before he can pull the strain of emotion out of his voice and bring himself back to some illusion of composure. “You can’t stay here. Your guests are expecting their host to be present, you’ll be missed.”

“And you won’t be?” Sinbad asks. He takes a step forward from the edge of the balcony; his motion is graceful enough to entirely belie the multiple cups of wine Ja’far knows he has had, that Ja’far has watched him offer in toast to one or another beautiful young woman at the gathering below. “Did you think you could just slip away from the party and no one would notice you were gone?”

Sinbad’s eyes are dark on Ja’far, his mouth set into the quirk of a smile that says he’s expecting the other to fall back, to retreat into apology or obedience to his king’s wishes. Ja’far sets his jaw instead, raising his hands from his sides to fold into the shadow of his sleeves as he lifts his head to hold Sinbad’s gaze with the full certainty of his own relative sobriety in comparison to the other’s. “I did,” he says, letting near-arrogant self-confidence ring through into his voice. “And I doubt very much that anyone did notice, except for you when you were counting how many doting attendants you had and came up one short.”

Sinbad’s eyebrows jump up towards his hairline, his footing stalls. “You’re angry.” He pauses for a moment; then he resumes his forward pace, as elegant in his motion as a leopard stalking its prey. “Tonight should be for celebration. Why are you angry?”

“Your kind of celebration isn’t to everyone’s tastes,” Ja’far says, keeping his gaze fixed on Sinbad’s even as the other draws close enough to make the difference in their heights clear, close enough to cast the shadow of his presence to swallow Ja’far within it. “You may wish to amuse yourself by draping a host of women around you but that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy watching you.” He lifts his shoulders into a quick, hard shrug. “You did not appear to be in dire need of a bodyguard this evening.”

“Ja’far,” Sinbad says, and reaches out to touch his hand to the shoulder of Ja’far’s robes, to weight the burden of his palm against the other. Ja’far’s clothes are heavy with the weight of ceremony he brought to the banquet this evening, layered with embroidery enough to drag over his shoulders with his every motion; he can still feel Sinbad’s touch as if it’s resting against his bare skin, as if the texture of the other’s fingerprints is laying itself flush against his body. “I do not want you present only to guard me.”

“No?” Ja’far says. “If not that then what need could you have of me, when you had more than enough--” and Sinbad’s other hand comes up with a speed enough to do away with whatever lingering beliefs Ja’far may have had about the other’s intoxication. His palm catches at the back of Ja’far’s head, his fingers tighten to brace the other still, and Ja’far’s words die as quickly as his lashes dip into instant, irrevocable surrender to the press of Sinbad’s mouth against his. Sinbad’s lips burn with the heat of the wine he has swallowed, they catch and cling to Ja’far’s mouth as if pressing their imprint there, as if there is ever any need for such when Ja’far feels the taste of Sinbad’s lips in his blood with every beat of his heart; and then Sinbad’s hand lifts from Ja’far’s shoulder to cradle the other’s head between both palms, and his lips part to urge Ja’far to surrender, and Ja’far gives way for the asking to let Sinbad drink as deeply of the taste of his mouth as all his greedy desire may wish.

Sinbad draws back, after some time. Ja’far doesn’t know how long it has been, doesn’t know how much of his lonely night Sinbad has laid claim to as his own. His tongue is full of the taste of wine, his blood as liquid-hot as if Sinbad has offered him drink of far stronger stuff than what the banquet is so overflowing with; one hand is clutched into the front of Sinbad’s robes, the other is up to curl tight at the back of the other’s neck. The only comfort Ja’far has is that Sinbad has curved in for every inch Ja’far has ceded, until he thinks it is only the support of the archway that now presses against his shoulders that has kept them from dropping to the smooth-polished floor of the hallway outright.

“Come to my quarters,” Sinbad says, and his voice is as dark as the night shadowing them out of seeing, as hot as the wine burning secondhand heat at Ja’far’s tongue. “Right now. I’ll take you there.”

Ja’far’s throat works on a whimper in spite of himself, his fingers work for purchase at the back of Sinbad’s robe. He wants nothing more than to duck his head into surrender, to murmur some pliant capitulation and let Sinbad collect him into his arms and bear him away through those empty hallways and to the perfect privacy of his chambers, where there is no banquet and no audience and nothing in the whole of Ja’far’s world but the king who has ruled his for as long as he has known him. But there is the banquet, and the audience, and if they do not miss one royal advisor they will surely miss the king himself; and if Sinbad is dismissive of his responsibilities it must fall to his advisor to hold to them instead.

“You will not,” Ja’far says, with as much self-assurance as he can find for himself with his mouth hot with the taste of Sinbad’s wine and his hands so shaky it’s only the pressure with which he’s holding to Sinbad himself that keeps them from trembling outright. “You will return to your banquet and you will play the host until the last of your guests have retired for the evening.”

Sinbad groans and tips in to press his forehead to the support of the pillar over Ja’far’s shoulder. “I don’t understand you,” he complains. When he turns his head Ja’far can feel the shape of his amused smile against his hair. “First you’re jealous of me being at the banquet, now you won’t let me keep you for myself. What must I do to satisfy you?”

“You must go back to your party,” Ja’far says, as firmly as he can, and if his voice dips towards petulance it is no more than a momentary surrender. “You must entertain your guests and let them dote upon their king.” He draws a deliberate breath to steady himself as much as he can before he goes on. “And then you must return to your quarters and satisfy me.”

Sinbad’s laugh is made of heat, low and rich and dizzying just for the hearing. “I see,” he says. His breathing is hot against Ja’far’s hair. “Very well. I must submit to the wisdom of your advice, Ja’far.”

“You should,” Ja’far agrees, as steadily as he can. “Your responsibilities as ruler must come before personal indulgences.”

“And they shall,” Sinbad says. His hand at Ja’far’s hair slides down; his thumb strokes behind the other’s ear. When he turns his head his lips brush Ja’far’s skin, his breath ruffles the other’s hair. “You will be waiting for me.”

The words might fall into the shape of a request, with another tone, in another moment. Ja’far shuts his eyes, and lets his head dip into surrender to the certainty of command on Sinbad’s voice. “Always, Sin.” Sinbad’s fingers tighten at his neck, Sinbad’s shoulders shift before him, and when Ja’far lifts his head Sinbad’s mouth finds his own with absolute certainty. Sinbad kisses him slowly, lingering long enough to be absolutely thorough in the taking, and when he draws away Ja’far’s knees are trembling and his eyelids are so heavy it is a struggle to lift his gaze to meet the shadows that have collected themselves behind Sinbad’s dark lashes.

“Later,” Sinbad says, and it’s a vow Ja’far feels in the marrow of his bones, a statement of possession as complete as that Sinbad issued all those years ago, when his claim drew Ja’far back onto a path he thought long since stripped from possibility. “I will come for you, Ja’far.” He presses one more kiss to Ja’far’s mouth, this one sweet and simple; and then he draws back, and pulls himself up to his full height, and turns aside to return back to the banquet below by more typical means than he arrived. Ja’far stays where he is, as much from a need for the support at his back as from a desire to watch the inherent grace of Sinbad’s movement as he strides away to lay claim to the night as easily as he did to Ja’far, and when Sinbad has vanished from sight Ja’far shuts his eyes, and tips his head back, and feels Sinbad’s heat flickering life through every inch of his existence.

Even with the sounds of the banquet long-since lost to hearing, he can taste the sweet of wine lingering against his tongue.


End file.
